Black Tie
by AllzStar
Summary: I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm about to fly to New York City to see a goddamn play. I'm about to see Kyle again. It's been two years. If there is a God, Kyle will have thrown out those stupid jeans. Because if not, I may have to rip them off of him, and God forbid he ever puts them on again if he's not with me. Kyman. SEQUAL TO KYLE'S JEANS. Rated T.
1. When I Think Of You In The City

**Black Tie**

_By AllzStar_

_A/N: Umm whaaat? I don't even know how this happened._

**Chapter One: When I Think Of You In The City**

_When I think of you in the city_

_The sight of you among the sights_

_I get the sudden sinking feeling_

_Of a man about to fly_

_Never kept me up before_

_Now I've been awake for days_

_I can't fight it anymore_

_I'm going through an awkward phase_

_Demons, The National_

Stan Marsh is a fucking moron.

I don't know how many times how many people in how many scenarios have uttered that sentence in this lifetime, but I swear it's up there with "The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost...".

That being said, all I am thinking as I drag Stan's drunk ass out of yet another sticky-hot-mess-rave-dorm party, is that Stan Marsh is a fucking moron. His puke is on my shoes. Again. They are now my Stan-puke shoes. Birks' knockoffs. Forty bucks at Payless, motherfuckers.

Jesus _Christ. _I am so done being both his roommate and his babysitter. I only moved in with him because I simply had nowhere else to go. Now I would much rather still be at home with my disintegrating mother.

No. That's not true. That's a bit extreme.

I don't want to put Stan in my car because I know he's going to puke again. I found that out the hard way four times ago.

Instead, I prop Stan up against the side of the building. He is mumbling nonsense to himself; I can see his eyes trying to focus on something—anything—around him. Impossible because a) it's too dark outside to see anything even whilst sober, and b) even if it were light out he is too drunk to focus at all.

I really need to get out of Colorado.

Denver, in all its snowy, freeze-your-balls-off, Rocky mountainous glory, is a bitch in the wintertime. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck. I can feel my pulse thudding in my veins there. I fish in my pocket for a cigarette.

Stan pukes. All over himself. I light up and take a long, slow drag.

Snow is swirling around me, dusting my shoulders, my hair. I'm a barrel of a dude. I've lost a shit tonne of weight since graduating high school but I have still somehow maintained my massive size. In addition to growing another three inches, I have put on literally pounds of muscle. Better than being a fat piece of lard, I suppose.

I debate just sending Stan home in a cab.

Cigarette still burning between my fingers, I go back into the dorm in search of a plastic bag. I push my way past streaking sorority girls and some guy guzzling beer from a funnel. Sure enough, in the communal kitchen area, there are a few bags lying around that people no doubt brought alcohol in.

I emerge from the dorm with three plastic bags. Stan is kareening over the lawn, stumbling in the snow, laughing his tight little ass off. I grab him by the hood of his jacket and steer him towards my car, shoving the bags into his hands.

"You puke in my car," I tell him as I open the rear passenger side door, "and I swear to God I will chop your balls off in your drunken sleep."

He nods, as if he has any notion of the severity of my threat. I push him, cop-style, into the car. He flops down onto the backseat and promptly passes out.

I shut the door and sigh, and finish my cigarette, squishing it between my toe and the slushy asphalt. The sky is too cloudy to see the stars. The air smells like Christmas.

Fuck, I miss Kyle sometimes.

I push that thought out of my head immediately. I won't think of him.

Kyle—

I go around my car to the driver's side and get in, shivering as I start the engine and blast the heat.

I wonder what New York looks like this time of year.

I wonder what he looks like now.

Stan Marsh is a fucking moron.

I turn on the radio, softly so as not to disturb Stan from his slumber—although I doubt anything could have at that point—and drive. The National croons out at me through the speakers (_When I think of you in the city / the sight of you among the sights_), and for a moment, just a tiny moment, I let myself think of Kyle.

The little redheaded Jewish fuck had promptly moved to New York City shortly after gradution. He got into TISCH or Julliard or some other nauseatingly expensive place. It came as no surprise to anyone, really. I can see Kyle in New York—all artsy-fartsy and gay as Broadway. The last thing I saw on his Facebook page before unfriending him was a slightly blurry camera phone picture of him at some dark bar, the flash illuminating his bleary drunk gaze, some chunky dude's arm draped around his thin little bird neck. The caption read, _Sloppy night with these fabulous fags! :D 3 – with Kyle Broflovski and somerandomfuckwhocanandwillsuckabigdickbutpreferablynotkylesplease_

Our last conversation had gone like this:

_*Ding*_

_Kyle: Hey_

_Me:_

_Kyle: How r u_

_Me:_

_Kyle: I'm moving to NYC_

_Me:_

_Kyle: Thought we could hang out before I leave?_

_Me:_

_Kyle: Eric?_

_Me:_

_Kyle:_

I lean my head back against the headrest of my seat as I ease my old gal onto the highway. I want another cigarette.

Stan and I had been stupid enough to not live on campus at U of D. Instead, we live in a little bungalow about a twenty minute drive from the university. I like to call it the House of Douchebags. Because really, that's what it is. Six bedrooms: two occupied by Stan and myself, respectively. Two of the others are inhabited by the most godawful, hemp-wearing, chia seed-drinking, sun-worshipping hippies known to man: Alex and Amethyst (NEED I say more?). And the last two house the scummiest, faggotiest fucks of all: Craig Tucker in one, and Kenny McCormick in the other. Lately, though, their rooms have been interchangeable.

Oh, yes. My dearest friends Craig and Kenny discovered their mutual interest in cock sometime within the first two weeks of moving in to the place.

The ride doesn't feel long enough. Soon I am pulling into the driveway of the House of Douche, and Stan is violently vomitting into one of the plastic bags (I turned in my seat to make sure of where exactly it all was landing).

I drag Stan from the car and sling his limp arm over my football shoulders, half carrying him into the house. I lock my car as an afterthought, aiming the remote over my shoulder.

The house reeks of weed. The two A's (Alex and Amethyst, or the Assholes for short) are lounging in the living area, their dirty disgusting feet tucked on the couch beneath their respective asses, praying to whatever moon God that governs the planet they came from. They barely acknowledge me as I shuffle in, tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter before dealing with Stan.

I throw Stan down onto his bed and drag the waiting bucket out from under his bed. I have learned that no matter where Stan pukes, I will ultimately be responsible for cleaning it up. It is better to be prepared.

Closing the door to Stan's room softly behind me, I pad back down the hall to confront the Assholes.

"Guys," I grunt as I come around the corner, "Madeleine is coming tomorrow to inspect the place. I don't think she'll appreciate the stench of weed clinging to every surface in the goddamn house."

"Relax, man," says Alex, smiling lazily up at me. "We'll open the windows tomorrow. Let the house breathe. It will all be right, brother."

"Don't call me that," I snap. I head for the kitchen. I hear Amethyst giggle behind me. It's all I can do to not throw the fucking espresso machine at her.

I think about calling Kyle.

What a stupid thing to think.

I find Kenny in his room. He's only wearing sweat pants, and he's reading a porn mag. Typical.

Kenny and I have a weird relationship. Things got awkward during high school and shortly after. We were best friends for awhile, but it got...complicated. I thought I was gay then Kenny thought he was gay but he turned out to not actually be gay while I continued being gay until I got to college and finally fucked a woman then Kenny thought I was just in denial but I really just don't know anymore and Kenny ended up being bi or confused or something. Maye I had just really loved Kyle, but the thought of general dick just doesn't appeal to me.

"Hey," I say, leaning in his doorway.

He makes a sort of noise in greeting. "What's up?" he asks, putting the magazine down and stretching his arms over his head.

"Brought Stan home."

Kenny makes a face. "What is that? Third time in two weeks?"

"Something like that." I shuffle my feet, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Hey, have you..."

"Heard from Kyle?" Kenny grins at me wolfishly. "Yeah. Briefly a couple days ago. Says his school is putting on some play and he's hoping to get the lead."

I nod. "Cool."

Kenny doesn't let up. Of course not. "Why don't you just talk to him yourself."

I look at Kenny mournfully. "You know I can't do that."

"Yes, you can." Kenny gets up from his bed and walks past me. "You just won't."

I sigh, lingering in the doorway. If there is one thing Kenny has always been and always will be, it's fucking right.


	2. How'd I Get So Faded

**Black Tie**

_By AllzStar_

A/N: I highly suggest you guys listen to the songs I will be posting at the beginning of each chapter. Also, apologies for the butt-fuck-load of exposition in these first couple of chapters. Cartman is depressed and reminiscing, okay?! Give him some tiiiiime...

Cover photo by JeyDS on DeviantArt.

**Chapter Two: How'd I Get So Faded**

_I got sinning on my mind_

_Sipping on red wine_

_I've been sitting here for ages_

_Ripping out the pages_

_How'd I get so faded?_

_(Bloodstream, Ed Sheeran)_

The next morning, I find it more difficult to get out of bed than usual. I hit snooze about ten times, until I literally have twenty-two minutes until class starts. In the morning rush-hour traffic, it will take me at least twenty-one minutes to get to school. I quickly brush my teeth and pull on a pair of jeans, then grab my backpack and head it.

As I pull out of our neighbourood and onto the highway, I light a cigarette. I started smoking during the summer after graduating. I like it. It reminds me that I am in control of my own impending death. Depression won't take me as long as I have cigarettes.

I remember my mother's face on the day I moved out: tears welling in the corners of her eyes and her mouth pressed in a thin line. She had begged me to write to her. I'd said, "No way in hell, Mom. Sorry. I love you."

I remember Stan's face as I told him what was on my mind that night at Stark's Pond: free of judgement, his hooded eyes dark with concern, his mouth wrapping around his third cigarette. That was when he had unofficially become my best friend.

I remember Kyle's face as I left him on the doorstep of his house: hands slack in his jeans pockets, his mouth slightly open, eyebrows knitted together on his forehead, blood-red curls softly framing his cherubic face.

Shortly after that, the unfairness of it all had hit me like a tonne of bricks. I had realized I needed to stop blaming Kyle for all my troubles, all my heartache. He had loved me, in his own way. He had tried to at least maintain a friendship with me. I had been the one to ultimately push him away because the jealousy I felt about everything was crushing me. Not just he jealousy, but the fear. I was afraid of getting hurt again, afraid of my sexuality, afraid of my future. Kyle had simply been riding through a patch of turbulence on his flight through youth, asking for love in all the wrong places. And I'd been the thid person to break his heart that year.

At that point, it had been too late for me to turn around and apologize. So I left town.

I sigh as I pull into one of the massive parking lots at the University of Denver, choosing a spot furthest away from the doors. I need the few extra minutes to walk across the parking lot to finish my second cigarette and swallow the rising dread in my chest. The Facebook image of drunk Kyle with that guy seems to be imprinted onto the inside of my eyelids. I don't want to see it anymore but it won't go away. Who knows what else has been posted there in the past six months since I unfriended him for good. He could be famous. He might be seeing someone.

No matter how much he had hurt me, I still can't bear that thought.

OOO

Kenny and Craig are having sex when I get home. I can hear Craig whining and screeching from outside. I can even hear Kenny's shitty bed squeaking.

God fucking damn it.

To my utter dismay, I feel my pants tighten at the sound of it. Ashamedly, this is not the first time I've been turned on by the sound of my rommates fucking. Part of me wants to stick around and listen to them, maybe even get myself off to it. The other part of me, the bigger part, wants to chop my own dick off for even considering such a thing.

It's Kenny grunting that really sets me off. God damn, but that is one sexy noise.

I decide to meet my parts halfway. I enter the house, making a beeline for my room. The Assholes are in the kitchen, seemingly unphased by the sound of buttsex happening ten feet away from them. I shut the door to my room behind me and yank my headphones on, blasting shitty scream-o music into my ears until Craig's screams seem to blend in with the track.

I guess I should have always known Craig Tucker would be a bottom. Figures.

I lounge on my bed, headphones still on, and prop my laptop open in my lap. Sign on to Facebook. Wendy Testaburger has posted an ultrasound still. Eighty-nine people have liked it. Sixty of those eighty-nine people have written various versions of "ZOMG CONGRATULATIONS YOU'RE GONNA BE SUCH A GOOD MOM OMG WE HAVE TO GET OUR KIDS TOGETHER FOR PLAYDATES SOMETIME LA LA LA LAAAA!"

I think I throw up in my mouth a little. I wonder, briefly, if Stan knows about this. They broke up almost two years ago, but the kid tends to be sensitive about all things Wendy, especially since she married the guy she started seeing a month after dumping Stan's ass.

A knock on my door. I don't know how I hear it over the screaming in my ears and the screaming down the hall. Brazenly, I glance at my watch. It's been a fucking half hour and they are still going at it.

Stan comes in. I yank off my headphones. Huh. It seems they actually have stopped fucking. I guess my music just sounds like Craig Tucker in heat. Never listening to that song again.

"Dude," Stan says, stradling my desk chair. He looks like hell and a half. "Did you see Wendy's post?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, man. Crazy."

He grimaces, taking a big swig of his monster bottle of Gatorade. His sweatpants are riding up in the crotch. I try not to notice the way the fabric has started to shape around his renoundedly big dick.

I swallow roughly. "I'm sorry, man."

He shrugs, but I see the mournful look in his eyes. "Whatever. I wouldn't want a fucking kid at this age, man. What a waste. She had so much potential."

I try and hold his gaze but he won't look at me. "Are you okay?"

"Meh." He stands and stretches, his shirt lifting up, revealing his flat, toned stomach, the ripple of his lower abdomen muscles, the sparse dusting of dark hair on his navel...

Calm down, I don't have a crush on my best friend. I just think he's fucking sexy as hell.

"Fuck I'm hungover." Stan rubs his stomach.

I raise my eyebrow at him. "You were a mess last night, dude. I'm, like, actually getting worried about you."

He shrugs. "I'm fine." Something about how he says it makes me think that he is not, in fact, fine. But then he says, "I'm actually worried about you."

I purse my lips. "What? Why?"

Stan's eyes wander around my room, avoiding my gaze. "You're depressed as fuck, man. Don't deny it. Everyone knows."

I make a grumpy "hmm" noise and fold my arms across my expansive chest.

Stan continues, "Kenny and I have been thinking about taking a trip over Christmas break. We want you to come."

"Where?"

"Uh..." Stan rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. "New York."

I snort out a bark of laughter. "Yeah. Not happening."

"Kyle got into that play," Stan says. "He wants us to come see it. He's the lead role, dude. And apparently the plays there are really good."

"Since when do you give a fuck about theatre?" I stand and walk past Stan and out of my room, padding towards the kitchen. The raven-haired fuck follows me, so I toss over my shoulder, "I'm not going."

"You are," Stand says, walking around the island to face me as I grab a beer from the fridge, "because I already bought your plane ticket."

I slam the fridge door shut. "Give it to Craig, then."

"Craig's going to the Dominican for the holidays."

"Well, someone else then!" I shout, twisting the bottle cap off with a dish towel. "I'm not going. I don't want to see some stupid play and I sure as shit don't want to see—" I stop, taking a long swig of beer.

I hate the sympathetic look Stan is giving me. "Come on, Cartman."

"Since when do you even care about the little Jew rat anyway?" I demand. "It's not like you guys are best butt buddies anymore."

Stan holds his hands out in front of him. "Don't lash out at me, man. I'm just trying to help you."

"You think seeing Kyle will help me?" I roar. I've had enough. "If you really wanna help me, you won't say his name again!"

Stan sighs. "You know what? Fine, whatever. Don't go to the show, don't see Kyle. But come to New York with us, man. We'll be there for New Years. Times Square. It'll be awesome. Kyle-free."

I think about it. For a long, drawn-out moment, I really think about it. It would be nice to get out of Colorado for a bit. It's what I've been itching to do for awhile. It would get to hang out with my friends in a huge, strange city and drink till I can't remember what pain feels like. But even if I don't go see the show, how do I know I won't see Kyle at any other point in time while we're there? The risk just seems too great.

"I don't know, man," I say, suddenly weary as the anger leaves my body. "I'll have to think about it."

Stan looks relieved. "You can't avoid him forever, dude. You know that, right?"

I finish my beer. "Yes. I can."

Stan shakes his head. "Sometimes I forget how fucking stubborn you are. Then you remind me."

"It's like I always say. People don't change."

Stan is quiet for a moment. I get another beer from the fridge.

"It would be the four of us," he says quietly.

"Huh?"

"If you come to New York. If you see the show. After. It would be the four of us again. Together."

I roll my eyes. "Jesus. Sometimes I really wonder if you're a fag, too."

Stan's blue eyes are hard as ice when he looks at me. He says nothing, but I know he's dead serious. He wants this. God damn it. A little part of me wants it, too. Back when the four of us were thick as thieves, things seemed a lot simpler. But it has been years since then. It's not the same anymore. And, despite what I always say, despite the fact that people never really do change—it never will be the same for us ever again.


End file.
